


Men don't get flowers on Valentine's Day

by HoneyPiePuzzle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (You will know if you look closely to what happens off-story), Comments contain Spoilers, First Kiss, I think John susses it out at some point but isn't too pleased ;), M/M, Miscommunication, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Valentine's Day Fluff, Who is the mysterious benefactor?, a tiny bit of science but you have to squint really hard, fluff all that fluff, it's always been a love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyPiePuzzle/pseuds/HoneyPiePuzzle
Summary: Valentine’s Day is just a stupid, commercial holiday and Sherlock would feel weird to give John Watson flowers. Which is mostly because John is not his sweetheart and ‘sweetheart’ is just a weird and pedestrian term anyway, thank you very much. A ‘perfect evening on Valentine’s Day’ isn’t what Sherlock needs, right?In shorter words: A story in which Sherlock gets an anonymous Valentine’s present and John gets weird. Miscommunication ensued.





	Men don't get flowers on Valentine's Day

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, it’s way past Valentine’s Day this year but what can you do when inspiration strikes?!? I’ve received an anonymous bouquet of flowers for Valentine’s Day and despite the fact that I still (22nd March) haven’t found out who has bestowed it upon me, I was actually quite thrilled to receive flowers in the first place.  
> So thank you, secret benefactor, for both the flowers and inspiring this story. If you are one of my friends or perhaps a secret admirer (I've never had one, it’s a tiny bit frightening), please don’t hesitate and come forward, coffee’s on me. If you are my stupid ex-boyfriend and just want to wheedle yourself back into my good books, piss off.
> 
> Thank you so much **MsScarlet**  
>  for your help. I am really happy this had you entertained (and not frustrated) I truly appreciate that you've had it all checked and back to me in only two days!!!

**Men don't get flowers on Valentine's Day**  


_‘Where are you, Sherlock?’_ \- John texts around 4pm when all Sherlock wants to do is dig into pig intestines in the morgue and not soil his phone with blood and gore. He is elbow deep into said pig carcass looking for the spleen with his eyes closed. You never know when that kind of knowledge and dexterity might come in handy. 

Sherlock opens his eyes, huffs in annoyance and ignores the text. But it wouldn’t be like John to give up on him easily. _‘In case you’re home, there is a delivery for you’_ the consecutive text says, _‘Should arrive within the next hour, don’t just open it straight away, wait for me!!!_ ’ Sherlock can see his mobile screen flicker merrily where it rests on the stretcher next to the pig’s carcass and he blows an errand curl out of his eyes. Next to him Molly raises a curious eyebrow. 

“Don’t you want to read that texts? Is it John?” she inquires cautiously and Sherlock growls because it has all been so very nice when she’d stood in silent attention to hand him all the tools he needs the moment he needs them. She’s become quite astute in interpreting his silent looks towards the tool tray.

“Irrelevant, I-“ he replies but the next flicker of his phone gives him pause. _‘btw it’s a present ;)’_. 

Sherlock is torn between the urge to frown spectacularly at the wink John has texted him - really, a wink, _a wink_ , John never winks at him in real life and Sherlock would prefer that on any given day because texting winks and not following through with them in real life just bloody _isn’t right_ \- and preen at the fact that John obviously intends to give him a present. Sherlock loves how John can always surprise him but does it really have to be while he’s doing research with pig intestines? Sherlock oscillates a bit and scowls until, five seconds later, he finds the spleen but leaves it where it is, because he’s opened his eyes and therefore the experiment is ruined anyway. 

Sherlock pulls his hands out of the carcass and flips the nitrile gloves into the bin without looking. There is a bit of gore on the cuff of his shirt where he’s rolled it up but it slid down stubbornly. Molly hands him a tissue. “So,” she says conversationally, “John?” 

Sherlock is a bit thrown for a loop and wonders if Molly, after all these years, has finally put her unfortunate crush behind her and learned to read him. How he reacts to everything _John_ and whether his sentimental affiliation no longer is a secret and has finally come to light. He swallows in unease. “What about John?” he asks, deliberately irritated and much fiercer than the question actually requires, but Molly doesn’t buy it. 

“Is he still at work? What did he text you?”

“He wants me home, apparently.” Sherlock clenches a hand around his phone.

Molly smiles. “Maybe he wants to cook for you tonight or will you take him out to dinner?”

“Why would I be taking him out to dinner?” Sherlock is thrown for the same loop again but Molly only cocks an eyebrow as if she expects him to be either obnoxious or obtuse on purpose. “Because it’s Valentine’s Day and I thought-“ 

“Just don’t, we’d all be happier,” Sherlock says sharply, cutting her off, and hurries into his coat. “Keep the carcass fresh and the spleen in, I’ll be back tonight.” He doesn’t turn around again to catch Molly’s retort and strides out of the morgue and into a cab.

***

During the ride home in the cab Sherlock figures that Molly is indeed telling the truth and it really is Valentine’s Day because the city is adorned with hearts and ribbons and roses and more such nonsense and Sherlock decides that, clearly, humanity has gone insane. He’d been too busy in his mind palace on the way to the morgue earlier, planning his experiment, and had deliberately blocked out his entire surroundings. Which is probably why the overall-adorable-fluffy-commerce-atmosphere disgusts him so thoroughly now. 

It all looks so fake. It’s extreme. 

It hits home. 

It seems like _everybody and their dentist_ are either holding hands, sitting in the windows of restaurants, dreadfully close, or towing around giant bouquets of flowers to give to beloved ones. 

“Off home to your sweetheart, mate? Where are the flowers?” the cabbie asks him good-naturedly but an annoyed glance towards the man tells Sherlock that he’s not really interested in two-sided small talk. Because the next second the man launches into a monologue about his beautiful wife who’s waiting for him at home. Sherlock feels hard-pressed to not tell the man off because, for once, Valentine’s Day is just a stupid, commercial holiday, and a quick assessment tells him the cabbie is basically showing off, telling white lies, is most likely without any romantic partner whatsoever and probably has the late shift. 

Sherlock sulks. _Idiot. What do you need a sweetheart for when you have purpose?_

Sherlock obviously doesn’t have a sweetheart. He has a _John_ which is infinitely better anyway, even though it would feel decidedly weird to give John _flowers on Valentine’s Day_ , in any event. Because John is not his sweetheart. It isn’t that Sherlock doesn’t want John to be _much more_ than he is right now but _sweetheart_ is just a weird term, thank you very much, and Sherlock refuses to be so pedestrian. 

Men don’t get flowers on Valentine’s Day, full stop. A man like John Watson shouldn’t get flowers on Valentine’s Day, full stop. A man like John Watson deserves so much more, would want for so much more, all the evidence tells him so. Sherlock doesn’t know what John Watson wants.

He grumbles non-committally, hopes that’s enough of an answer for the cabbie and ignores him for the rest of the ride.

***

When he gets home Mrs. Hudson is in the hallway, arms indecently full of spring flowers and a giant smile on her face. Sherlock’s mood instantly tumbles towards bottom line. “Will you look at that, Sherlock,” she coos and practically sticks the flowers in his face. “Mr. Chatterjee is just so wonderful, such a gentleman-“

“No, he really isn’t, it’s just his wife that’s out of town with her sister. Those aren’t even roses. The alphabet of flowers-”

Mrs. Hudson interrupts by tuting at him. “You’re just peeved because no one has given you flowers,” she says. “I’ll talk to John, he’s supposed to do the job.” She frowns at him. “Really Sherlock, since he’s making you live in sin with him, he should at least buy you flowers to lift up your mood today.”

This is incredulous, Sherlock decides. “Mrs. Hudson, you’ve known John and me for five years now,” he says, displeased. “What on earth gives you the idea he’d give me flowers? I don’t need flowers, flowers are _boring_. And he’s not making me do anything, no one can make me do anything.” Even after all these years and all shameful evidence, or rather lack thereof, to the contrary, people around them still believe them to secretly be a couple. And _live in sin_ , which is old-fashioned and pedestrian and overall hateful. Sherlock would so love to live in sin with John. His private fantasies have, so far, been rather innocent on that front, but after all that had happened with Victor he’d repressed that particular part of himself and had exiled it into the deepest vaults of his mind palace.

“Well, _no one_ can certainly make you wash your dishes or hoover your carpet, dear,” Mrs. Hudson deadpans and Sherlock is close to getting into a strop.

He decides humanity is rather lost as he trudges up the stairs and shuts the door with a loud bang.

***

The doorbell rings and Sherlock has half a mind to yell downstairs to Mrs. Hudson because he cannot be bothered. He is sprawled on the sofa, arms and head half off the cushions, in a deep strop. There is a case pending that Lestrade hasn’t asked him to consult on yet, but it’s an open secret that NSY’s finest are at their wits’ ends and Sherlock is sure he will be summoned at some point. There is a new experiment researching cardiac arrhythmias, for which he has secured the mice but not the toxin. And Mycroft, who wants to consult him about an extremely vocal MP gone rogue on Brexit. But every few seconds his mind comes back to the present John has announced that he has for him. Sherlock is so deep within his head immediately after the doorbell quietens that he nearly misses the clatter on seventeen stairs and the creak of the door to their sitting room.

“Hey, didn’t you want to get that?” John says. He has a box in his hands and his scarf is askew. “That’s for you.” 

Sherlock blinks and surges to his feet, delighted. “Oh, good.” He snatches the box out of John’s arms and puts it on the kitchen table. John steps over to him a moment later, now devoid of coat, shoes and scarf, and a whiff of cologne plays around Sherlock’s nose. John has a very benevolent and handsome smile on his face and Sherlock is thrilled. He didn’t even have to do anything and _still_ John smiles, deeply satisfied, a twinkle in his eyes. This is definitely how he likes John best and Sherlock thinks that he could watch John’s smile for ages - in fact, he always feels slightly drunk on it, bewitched. When John crosses his arms in front of his chest, the fabric of his fuzzy jumper produces a soft swooshing noise and Sherlock wants to gather him in his arms and squeeze him or at least put him into his pocket and keep him forever.

“Open it?” 

“Absolutely.”

It takes about two seconds to tear off the outer paper, another three seconds to open the box and Sherlock plunges his hands into Styrofoam chips. “Oh.” No matter what turns out to be in this box Sherlock is already enjoying himself tremendously.

When all the tedious wrapping is finally gone, John’s smile abruptly expires. Which is not a development Sherlock has anticipated. John isn’t supposed to look grim if Sherlock can help it. He frowns.

“What-“, John starts as Sherlock retrieves a cardstock box in dark red.

“Shouldn’t you know?” he asks, irritated, and suddenly it is not a present-situation anymore but rather more of a conundrum-situation. Sherlock’s interest is piqued, despite everything. 

“I didn’t-“, John shakes his head in befuddlement, takes half a step closer to Sherlock and uncrosses his arms to put them onto his hips. “This isn’t mine.” 

“What do you mean this isn’t yours?” Sherlock snaps, thrown by the change in John’s demeanor. “You said you’d give me a present? Who else would be giving me a present?” The thought isn’t completely without interest but who on earth would give him an earnest Valentine’s Day present? A mock-present, yes, to either pique his attention or his disgust. To distract him from far more important things like murders and crimes but there is just nothing on these days until Lestrade finally comes out and asks him to look over his newest crime scene photos. 

Life has, admittedly, been a bit boring since Moriarty blew his own brain out. Well, Sherlock concedes in silence, life has, admittedly, been less of a constant threat to body, mind and soul since Moriarty blew his own brain out. There may be other criminals, other syndicates out there but since Sherlock succeeded over Moriarty and his spider web, no one has openly approached him. So maybe this is a real _fluffy-be-mine-Valentine’s Day_ present? 

Sherlock snorts. 

Maybe it’s John’s fluffy-be-mine-Valentine’s Day present, but no, Sherlock has checked. It’s definitely his, it says so on the addressing. He briefly ponders whether the date is coincidental but dismisses the thought as too unlikely a coincidence.

“Maybe it’s live mice,” he says in lieu of a better explanation but then hmmm’s. “But I’ve already ordered live mice.” They are with Molly at Bart’s, which may be a mistake because Molly is already disgustingly fond of them.

“What do you need live mice for, Sherlock?” John asks, suspicion thick in his voice. “And where are they?”

“Totally irrelevant. Live mice are totally irrelevant now.”

The box looks quite impressive with its deep dark red and its velvety surface and Sherlock’s first clue is the black ribbon that ties the lid to the lower body. There is no note, though, no clue to doubtlessly verify a sender and right next to him John’s frown is deepening. 

“Are you sure you should open it? Maybe we should get it x-rayed, maybe it’s explosives.”

“It’s not explosives.”

“How can you know? There’re enough people out there who clearly hold a grudge against you, maybe someone’s out for revenge of some sort.”

Sherlock huffs and, despite the delay, feels a rush of fond affection towards the doctor. John is adorably captivating when he’s protective but Sherlock has a mystery to solve now _before_ he can start solving the mystery of _why_ John gives him a present. Not to mention _what_ John decided to give him as a present. It’s a mystery he _desperately_ wants to start solving. 

But first things first.

“It’s too light,” he says by way of an elaborate explanation and sets the box down onto the table to push his fingers under the ribbon and remove it. He’s about to remove the lid when-

“ _Don’t just touch it!_ ” John hisses and closes his hand around Sherlock’s wrist in a strong grip. Sherlock freezes. 

“You cannot know whether it’s perhaps explosives,” John reasons. “Someone might try and blow up the flat.”

“John, calm down, no one’s going to blow up the flat. We’ve already had that.” 

“Doesn’t mean it cannot happen again. It’s not exactly my idea of a perfect Valentine’s evening.”

“Oh,” Sherlock scoffs in a sudden rush of impatience; the breach of his personal space, or rather the distraction it poses and how much Sherlock generally always revels in John’s touches and attention only enraging him further now. “Pray tell, what is? Wining and dining and a nice stroll in the park afterwards? Holding hands and…” He stutters a bit and hides it in a scoff. “…kisses in the dark? Please don’t be _boring_.”

Instead of answering John only glowers at him, blue eyes dangerously dark and narrow, grip still steadfast around his wrist. They glare at each other for a moment in looks that could cut diamonds before John relents under Sherlock’s incredulous stare, and though he removes his hand he still hovers close. The twitch Sherlock feels under his sternum at that is mildly distracting but, really, how can John be so illogical and think a trick like blowing up the flat could work twice. He removes the lid carefully anyway.

It’s no explosives that’s hidden in a patch of silk. Instead there is a small creamy envelope of finest stationery, sealed by wax… and a single light purple foxglove. 

Out of the corner of his eyes Sherlock sees John’s eyebrows first shoot up only to switch into a deep frown halfway. “It’s flowers,” he says, unhelpful. “Who’s sending you flowers?”

“A sound deduction, John,” Sherlock replies, his timbre a bit on the mock-acerbic side. “But _technically_ it’s _a_ flower. Foxglove or digitalis purpurea to give it its scientific name. Very fascinating flower with a variety of deadly toxins. But still only _one_.”

John rolls his eyes at him. “Yes, okay, _one_ digitalis flower, genius,” he amends with an eye roll, the emphasis on the number. “But who’s giving you one flower? Especially today? Men don’t get flowers on Valentine’s Day. It’s not even a rose.” He sounds puzzled and Sherlock, despite being set a riddle to solve, wants to tuck him deeper into his pocket because John has hit the nail on the head.

“I don’t like this,” John says a second later, clearly unsure of whether to let Sherlock keep at it or drag him off to safety and call a SWAT team. Sherlock cracks a half-smile. “Oh, I do.” 

Sherlock is basically thrumming with anticipation when he snaps on nitrile gloves, extents nimble fingers and delicately snatches the envelope out of the box. He is careful to touch it as little as possible so he can check it for fingerprints later. John is watching him closely, poised for either fight or flight, attack or defensive protection. Whichever first comes in handy, Sherlock supposes and the prospect excites him more than is prudent. 

To their palpable relief, they also don’t get blown up in a wave of heat and force and fire when Sherlock breaks the envelope’s wax seal open. He quickly glances at John, whose face has slacked a little around the mouth in relief, before he slides his fingers under the flap, tugs it out and peers inside.

“A simple card,” he states, pulling it out, holding it around the edges between his palms. “No personal indication I can detect. It's hand written but it’s no one I recognize. _‘Today could be your perfect day, so don’t be sad.’_ That’s… What’s that supposed to mean?”

To his surprise and irritation John huffs a breathy laugh next to him. “It’s Valentine’s Day, Sherlock. Maybe you have a secret admirer.” John voice doesn’t sound half as funny and benevolent as his words might suggest, so Sherlock chooses to ignore the remark as such and instead focuses on John’s face. Really, this day is getting better and better. First the intestines, then the announcement of a present from John, now this enticing conundrum and on top of that John appears to be deliciously… “Jealous?” Sherlock smirks because the thought is hilarious. In what universe could John have any reason at all to be jealous when it’s _him_ , evidently, that’s the most exciting and captivating person around? John doesn’t think he is amazing, though, despite repetitive evidence to the contrary, and Sherlock has always wondered why.

Dismissing that particular mystery for the time being he turns the card, hums, and holds it up to the fading light. He’s somewhat disappointed when there is nothing to detect. No hidden message, no watermarking, just ordinary stationery, though heavily expensive, lacerated fancily around the edges and with tiny leafy filaments that are just a tad darker than the rest of the paper.

Being engrossed in the task the way he is, Sherlock doesn’t immediately notice John step away. Now that the immediate danger has past and it’s not explosives, John apparently deems it safe enough to start following his coming-home-after-a-shift-at-the-clinic-routine. Which starts with a cup of tea. For each of them if John can help it and Sherlock is at home and amenable. What he doesn’t know is that Sherlock would basically be amenable to mostly anything John suggests, but these days he bristles at being too conspicuous about it. He can ignore or make use of other people’s goldfish-tendencies but his own are tedious and intolerable.

Internal conviction notwithstanding, Sherlock’s eyes follow John to the kitchen, as they always do since John has moved back into Baker Street. Too late he realizes John has yet to answer his two questions. 

***

Examining the rest of the box and velvet inlay provides him with no solution whatsoever. He’s dismantled the whole ensemble, careful not to touch the flower more than absolutely necessary, put the respective parts onto the kitchen table and has ignored the teacup John has left for him on the counter out of obstinate spite. John has taken his own cup to the sitting room and busies himself with the newspaper. The silence feels a bit tense but since the flat hasn’t been blown up to smithereens yet neither of them has felt the need for chatter. 

Sherlock is utterly lost in his conundrum. His microscope on the table, he cuts a thin stripe from the cardstock to test with various chemicals. If the material is abuzz with toxin or anything equally hazardous he will find out. The foxglove will be for later but Sherlock wants to play it safe with the envelope and card first and upon a first cursory inspection the flower seemed untampered with and…

_Tap, tap, tap._

_Tap, tap, tap._

Sherlock looks up, eyes scanning the flat in a quick flicker.

_Tap, tap, tap._

“John, stop that.”

John turns in his chair, the newspaper half-forgotten in his lap, and frowns. 

“What?” He feigns a chuckle. “Is my thinking bothering you again?”

“No, but your tapping is. You’re tapping your fingers, stop that.” Sherlock waves his hand in in the general direction of where John sits in his chair and resumes examining the filaments in the cardstock. Daylight is rapidly fading and he has half a mind to tell John to switch on the lights in the kitchen when, abruptly, exactly that happens. 

“The person who sent this to you,” John says, dipping his chin to indicate the box and its contents. He is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other between his hip and the wall. Both half-clenched into fists, expressive face cautious. “You really have no idea?”

Sherlock is bending low over the cardstock, scissors in hand. “No. I can honestly tell you I have no idea.”

John appears unfazed. His face is calm but there is something in his eyes that seems a bit off. “It must be someone who really likes you,” John muses. “Someone… brave.”

“I don’t know anyone who fits that description.” Which is not true, Sherlock has to amend, because such an ‘anyone’ is currently leaning at the doorframe only a few inches from him, gazing at him in what Sherlock thinks is barely contained anger and a tad uncertainty. But John has already denied having instigated that particular present, his body language only emphasizing that denial. Which is too bad, frankly.

Sherlock wonders what exactly John is angry about, if it is him or the mysterious present or the person behind the mysterious present. Or something entirely different?

John swallows audibly. “It must be someone romantic, at least at heart, and who knows you well enough to not mind that you aren’t.”

“What makes you say that, John?”

“Well,” John shuffles his feet, but doesn’t come any closer, a complicated look in his eyes. “Because they’re sending their adoration in a riddle.” 

Which is a clever thought, Sherlock assumes. It is certainly the right way to arouse his interest. 

“Adoration is a very strong term for a single flower and roughly 2 ounces of cardstock,” he retorts and John chuckles.

“Well, they must feel that way towards you to send a present which is both traditional for Valentine’s Day and a riddle to keep you occupied.” He hums. “Only you could find foxglove a fascinating flower. They must truly like you.” He hesitates. “Maybe it’s the Woman, she certainly knows what people like and you like a good puzzle and she’s fanc-”

“John, John,” Sherlock says, talking over John and finally fully looking up at him. “Don’t- That’s- No one truly likes me, as you should well know.” He says it with a finality that makes John open his mouth but, thankfully, refrain from finishing the sentence. Instead he bites the corner of his lower lip, eyes glistening with something very close to anger again.

Sherlock swallows and hopes his face doesn’t give anything away. 

_The Woman._

If Sherlock never hears from Irene Adler again, it will be too soon. He doesn’t regret to have saved her life in Pakistan but, fascinating and dangerous creature that she is, she’s come close, so very close to hurting him, to ruining him. If his heart hadn’t already been signed with another’s name it could have become hers and she would have used it to her own advantages, which would have been more than he could possibly have handled. Which is why as Sherlock had looked into her eyes in a hotel room somewhere in India, where she’s offered herself for him to take, and seen the darkness lurking there, he’d resolutely sent her back to her own room before they’d finally parted ways and left the country in the dead of night. 

He’s been there before, looking into Victor’s dark, bottomless eyes, and back then had decided differently. Some 10 years ago he’d met him at university and, yes, Sherlock has had all the vital experiences people have when they fall in love with someone. The glow, the giddiness, the emotional rush. The physicality. But then Victor had turned on him, had told Sherlock he’d tired of him before unceremoniously dumping him. All had fallen apart around him and when every bit of the inglorious aftermath had finally been over - which had happened with great amounts of delirious pain, depression, drugs and scars on his side of the equation - Sherlock was done with that particular aspect of humanity and hasn’t deemed it iterative in any way, shape or form. One-time encounters are totally out of the equation as they won‘t help in terms of loneliness _and_ they require trusting people and people are idiots. He had been lost, led astray into his darkest hours and he’s been trying for years now, not to dwell on his experiences and how much they have cost him, but to protect his mind and sanity and do what he’s best at. Do what gives him reason and purpose.

It doesn’t matter how futile his current situation with John might be, it’s preferable to what Irene would have done to him and his fragile heart. Only entertaining the mere _thought_ is… a shiver creeps down Sherlock’s spine and it proves to be quite a feat not to jolt with it. 

“I do,” John says, abruptly, and all Sherlock can do to save face is shove away his musings, shape up and roll his eyes dramatically. “Yes, but we all know you enjoy a challenge and you’re hardly normal in any definition yourself.”

“Thank you, you really know how to phrase a compliment.” John hesitates. “Sherlock, I should probably-”

“John, no,” Sherlock says and it’s really hard to not give himself whiplash, because he’s rolling his eyes so hard while underneath his heart beats ten miles per minute. “I am not likable. People don’t like me.” Which Sherlock knows is true from experiences. Manifold experiences. But it’s hardly his fault that normal people react to the truth of his deductions in ways that, mostly, are uncalled for. May those ways lead either to a bloody nose, a black eye or being showered in insults and threats of utmost harm. Sherlock is what and who he is and he refuses to change for something as dull and pedestrian as social niceties. Always will. Always ready to convey that willingness, or rather lack thereof, in any way, shape or form he sees fit. He certainly knows John likes that witty snarkiness about Sherlock and Sherlock certainly likes that about John as well as John’s compassion, smartness and general sass. But no matter how you twist and turn it, people in general don’t like Sherlock because he’s difficult and even though John evidently does, it is hardly John’s fault he doesn’t like him in the _right_ way. 

Sherlock supposes this is instinctual and no matter how positively _disconcerting_ , and sad it is, it unfortunately cannot be helped.

“And if they did I wouldn’t care because they’re all dull.”

“This one isn’t, I am afraid,” John mumbles, somewhat resentfully, and rather under his breath, before checking his mobile and clenching his jaw. “Someone isn’t.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and is definitely sure now that there is something off about John. His face is scrunched, his hands fully clenched into fists and he radiates palpable waves of unhappiness. 

“Who gave you the package?” Sherlock inquires, if only to distract John temporarily from checking his phone again and looking so put out and miserable. Which isn’t at all what he wants. Sherlock still hasn’t done anything but John doesn’t smile anymore. He prefers John smiling, eyes scintillating and alight with happiness.

John shrugs, face closed. “Delivery man from UPS, arrived in the appropriate vehicle, tall, blond, in a hurry. I had to sign for it.”

“I see,” Sherlock says and, despite everything, smiles crookedly because John, after all these years of chasing Sherlock chasing criminals, sure knows what to look for. Moreover, John does his observation with a grace and mind for details that’s become very natural and reliable. 

For one so unassuming with his non-descript jumpers and harmless, even boring appearance, John is surprisingly witty, sassy even. Capable and strong and positively riveting in his intricate complexity; a drawer of hidden treasures. The day he’d limped into Sherlock’s life can never be cherished enough. In fact, Valentine’s Day should be replaced by it.

John smiles back at him. It’s a bit lopsided but when he mock-rolls his eyes, Sherlock can actually see John is proud. Which makes Sherlock proud and his heart flies out to the doctor. They smile at each other fondly, John’s eyes start to shine and Sherlock thinks how friendship is indeed such a very weird thing. You walk along the path of life, dismissing people left, right and center because they are boring, dull and generally morons, until something changes and you meet someone random. Someone who turns out to be worth a second glance and you pick out that random human and decide that _this_ , _this_ is the one you’re going on adventures with. _This_ is the one you allow to follow - and to lead.

The concept is not dissimilar to love, Sherlock assumes, but for Sherlock that particular sentiment had led into the dark. So his own experiences aren’t exactly the book you take a leaf out of.

Then he’d met John. And fell for him, twice. It’s been a different aftermath to the last time he’d fallen for someone because for John he’d accepted it all, had acted willingly, at least on the second fall. But while John merely got caught in the events for being close to Sherlock in the first place and is undeniably worth all the hardship, the same cannot be said for Victor.

Willfulness notwithstanding, Sherlock fell and it had caused an undesirable amount of pain and darkness. And sometimes, when Sherlock looks at John and sees that look returned in blue, gold flecked eyes, he has to fight flashbacks of that darkness, that pain. Pain that has led him astray, has left him terrified and his heart brittle and weak... 

It’s one of the reasons why Sherlock has never made a pass at John. 

“You really don’t have any idea who could have sent it to you?” John is asking and Sherlock has to shape up and pay attention. When he looks at him, John’s face is closed again. 

“As I have said before.”

“What about the Woman?” John asks a second later, sotto voce, and his jaw is set in stubbornness.

“No!” Sherlock straightens, stomach curdling and locks eyes with John, who freezes instantly. They stare at each other while the words hangs between them, like a half-solid presence, and it’s proof of John’s calm integrity that he’s brought up Irene Adler a second time. Sherlock is hit by the fact that the whole fiasco is apparently still troubling him. It shouldn’t be a surprise, though. After all, John hadn’t taken to her kindly; her presence, brief as it had been, was hardly more than a nuisance to John. She had shaken Sherlock deeply, she is a threat, has always been a threat, that remains a possibility in the prevailing case but, thankfully, there is no clue at the moment that doubtlessly points in that hateful direction.

“I haven’t heard from her in years. She is of no concern,” Sherlock says and finds his voice is low and final.

“Okay, right. Then what about the flower?” John has stepped closer and is canting his hips against the kitchen table. After Sherlock’s dismissal of the Woman John’s eyes shine a bit, Sherlock is satisfied to notice. Still, the whole conversation is grating on his nerves.

“We’re going to Bart’s,” Sherlock announces, a complete non-sequitur, and immediately starts to wrap up the foxglove into the remains of its box. 

John’s mouth drops open. 

“What? No!” he exclaims, forcefully, and fumbles to check his mobile again. Sherlock’s eyes narrow because the box and flower, he recalls, aren’t the only mystery meant to be solved here. 

“We can’t go to Bart’s now!” John repeats emphatically and shakes his head. His dark blue eyes are wide open and glistening.

“Why wouldn’t we go to Bart’s, their chemical equipment is much better than what I have here.”

“But… _Sherlock_!”

“John, my name is hardly a counter argument, so stop using it as such. We’re going to Bart’s.”

Shrugging into his coat Sherlock sweeps down the stairs while John trails listlessly behind. “Don’t dally, John!” he orders and lifts a hand to hail the first cab he sees. 

***

Molly regards them with eyes as wide as saucers when Sherlock opens the door to the lab, John trudging behind him.

“Six o’clock isn’t exactly ‘tonight’, Sherlock,” she says. “Were you even home?”

“Oh, yes. Change of plans,” Sherlock answers merrily and while he unwinds his scarf to throw it onto a lab chair, he notices John and Molly locking eyes. John has stepped behind him to remove his jacket, his back turned so Sherlock cannot see his face and Molly is frantically gesturing at him, her face a bit flushed and mouth taut. Sherlock frowns. Since when have these two become conspiratorial?

“What?” he demands to know but both hurry to shrug at him. 

Sherlock eyes them for a moment longer before he puts the box onto the table, snaps on one nitrile glove and picks out the foxglove flower, carefully so he doesn’t damage it. “Molly, I need to examine this and I need you to list all the toxins in this flower that have no natural business being there.”

“You think someone has tampered with the petals?” John inquires and Molly shifts his focus to him.

“John, what-? I though you…?” she starts, puzzles, and, like in a theatre play, flicks her gaze from one man to the other and back. 

John pinches the bridge of his nose and the same complicated look Sherlock has detected earlier comes back into his eyes. “Sherlock has been given an anonymous Valentine’s Day present,” he says, looking at Molly, who looks downright shaken now. 

“We don’t know who sent it,” John elaborates and Sherlock is a bit taken aback by the helplessness in his voice. If it wouldn’t be so completely far-fetched he’d say John…

“Oh, John, that’s…” Molly starts but immediately shuts off at a look from John. She pulls her lab coat closer around her shoulders, her face carefully blank, then turns to encompass Sherlock. “Okay, where do you want me to start?”

***

John’s phone chimes twice before Sherlock has finished taking fingerprints from the stationery and feed them to the NSY database. It chimes again when Sherlock scrutinizes the velvet inlay of the box. John checks all three messages but only answers the first, leaving the other acknowledged but pending. His whole body language conveys a combination of nervousness and tiredness, his shoulders set in tense lines, when he dutifully announces that the data scan for the fingerprints has come up without any results. Which was to be expected, Sherlock guesses, still happily intrigued. Only fools make mistakes and so far his anonymous admirer doesn’t belong into that category. The whole thing is too well executed to be coincidental. However, Sherlock is no closer to cracking his mysterious Valentine’s Day present and it will presumably take at least 12 hours for Molly to define all the toxins in the foxglove petals, whether their presence is natural or not. When she tells him so, Sherlock feels an unexpected fit of generosity and points out that he is the one to make the next move now in this game, that the mystery is going nowhere and that, for now, he has other leads to follow. Out of the corners of his eyes he sees John glance at him.

It is just past eight o’clock now and the last toxin test on the cardstock will take at least another forty minutes. Sherlock is getting a bit restless, idle waiting not exactly being his forte. It has crossed his mind that someone may have overheard him and Molly talking about cardiac arrhythmias when he brought the mice here. After all foxglove is a known naturopathic medicine against cardiac arrhythmias but since they’d had that discussion at around 2:30 am on a Sunday it’s all highly unlikely. 

Pondering distractions to pass the waiting time the carcass comes to mind, but he dismisses the thought of repeating his spleen experiment, because a quick look at John and his tense shoulders tell him that he’d rather be someplace else. Which is weird because John could have left any time. Sherlock may have told him they were going to Bart’s together and John is always keen to be either helpful or act as a sort of filter between Sherlock and the entanglements of the world. But John’s restlessness is thoroughly distracting and at around nine o’clock, after the final test results from the card come in, Sherlock finally gives up on his microscope.

He straightens on his lab stool and stretches his neck. His own phones has chimed several times with texts but he hasn’t bothered to check. Since John is here and definitely not texting him, it will only be Mycroft, because Lestrade would have called and Mycroft is probably the last person he wants to talk to right now. 

John returns with their second round of watery tea in plastic cups and puts one next to Sherlock on the counter.

“No positive results, no clues?”

“None so far.” Sherlock rakes a hand through his curls in consternation, before he grabs his tea. Everything is wrong about the drink when he takes the first sip apart from the fact that it is heavily dosed with honey, no doubt to cover the poor taste, and that John has brought it to him. 

“Can we leave, then?” John asks and drains the dregs of his own drink. There is still a palpable amount of tension in him, and when John’s phone chimes a fourth time since they’ve come here, Sherlock waves a hand at him, grateful for the reprieve.

“You don’t want to get that?” 

“No, it’s not important,” he says and when Sherlock looks closer, John turns away. 

“You sure?” Sherlock asks, softly, and wants to reach out a hand and touch John’s shoulder but John has already stepped away.

Molly is off in her office, which means they are alone and since there is nothing Sherlock can do about the Valentine-flower-conundrum at the moment - and he decidedly _doesn’t_ want to deal with Mycroft and Brexit - and John is the most important person in his universe, Sherlock regards him closer. John’s hair is combed back neatly and the lights that bounce off the gold-silver hues in his hair highlight his blue eyes. His simple blue-grey jumper does wonders for his complexion, even in the neon light of Bart’s lab. The dark jeans hug his legs and hips in all the right places, his shoes are threadbare but clean. Which suggests...

“Did you have plans tonight?” 

John abruptly turns back to him and tries hard not to purse his lips. After a moment of awkward hesitation he nods. Once.

“But something went wrong,” Sherlock deduces. He knows John hates that, hates his expressive face and how Sherlock can use it against him but it’s obvious that something hasn’t gone according to plan for John. Sherlock is unpleasantly hit by the thought that John might have planned a Valentine’s date. With someone. Who _isn’t_ Sherlock. 

They regard each other in silence, stalemated, and Sherlock feels his heart throb painfully.

Since they’ve moved in together again John’s dating history has been a rather sparse one so it’s perhaps only logical for John now to resume looking for a significant other. Sherlock has strained his patience thin and has repeatedly told himself to be grateful John came back and not to get overly jealous again and scare John’s girlfriends off like he’s done before the fall. But it’s quite a feat, because Sherlock has always been ridiculously possessive towards everything _John_. 

They have talked about Sherlock’s fall and both of them are on the clear that pointing fingers is futile, but Sherlock knows he had hurt John, deeply. It has taken them quite some time to find their equilibrium, to diffuse John’s anger and settle back in together, so Sherlock had reigned in his feelings, the buzz in his guts, which had grown and flourished in his neglect before his fall. It had served him well as a motivator, though, something to hold on tight to during his time away.

He had been very much relieved that John hadn’t found someone to settle down with during his absence and so had promised himself not to go and ruin it for John lest he’d get angry and leave for good after Sherlock had just gotten him back. Which would hurt. A lot. It’s the most terrifying thing Sherlock can imagine. 

But this, _this_ is just bordering on the unbearable.

Sherlock fumes internally and rakes both hands through his hair, because who in his right mind has the gall to _ditch_ John Watson? Sherlock would _never_ ditch John Watson if John ever asked him out on a Valentine’s date, the mere _thought_ is just ridiculous. So who has?

“So, this present of yours,” Sherlock prompts in desperate need for a change of where this discussion is heading. Frustration notwithstanding, he surprises himself with how downright conversational he sounds. “What is it?”

The way John’s expression changes is breathtaking to watch. He instantly lights up at the non-sequitur, obviously eager for a change of topic, too, and a soft smile plays around his mouth. It’s accentuating the lines around his eyes handsomely and Sherlock has to bite down a smile of his own. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask,” John says and Sherlock is chuffed to notice the twinkle is back in his eyes. “You didn’t forget about it.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock is quick to agree and they fondly smile at each other. It’s amazing how a smile changes John’s whole body language and Sherlock pushes down his blossoming jealousy about the anonymous date of John’s as deep as it will go. It could all be so incredibly easy if he himself were John’s date. His romantic interest. The thought gives him pause.

The natural attraction between them, the little bouts of affection they show each other in everyday-life - a touch on the shoulder, a brush of fingers over tea mugs, hovering closer together over a file or the newspaper than the situation necessitates, a half-flirty smile when Sherlock is brilliant and John calls him so - it is undeniable. Life with John is just so interesting and comfortable, Sherlock muses, more comfortable that it has ever been with anyone. More comfortable than it had been with Victor, for whose affection he constantly had to battle only to spectacularly loose the fight and be left behind. In the secrecy of his mind Sherlock likes to entertain the thought that John will always be around. Sadly, it is also a fact that Sherlock isn’t sure John’s taste actually runs in his direction. They have spent so many years together and yet Sherlock is yet to secure ample proof of John’s general inclination. However, if it weren’t for the constant buzz in his guts that’s driving him round the bend, the constant yearning to reach out, grasp and hold close what he wants to be his, it wouldn’t actually matter. He’d take it all in stride while just being John’s friend if he could be sure John never leaves.

There might have been some same-sex interests in John’s previous life. In fact, Sherlock is downright positive John has made experience while in the army. However, that time has long since passed and Sherlock doesn’t know about the nature of said experiences. Doesn’t know whether these haven’t only happened out of convenience. Men, alone in the desert among enemy forces, constantly under threat against body and psyche. Sentiments of any kind must have run wild. That’s why Sherlock is convinced certain encounters have indeed happened. 

If some of those encounters had been of a romantic nature Sherlock find himself unable to deduce. It is not like he can go and ask John about them and digging into John’s history, tracking down people who have served with him to obtain data is just a tad too obsessive, even for him.

As he looks at John now, all smiles, soft eyes and enticing cologne, he concludes that he may not know what John appreciates in a romantic partner but if his requirements could be met within their life together at 221b, Sherlock would do his utmost to meet them.

“Well”, John steps closer again, shoulders devoid of their former tension, and leans onto the counter next to Sherlock. “Who knows?” _Who does, indeed_. 

John smiles again, meeting Sherlock’s gaze and holding it, the tiny gold flecks in his irises dancing, before the light in his eyes turns teasing. 

“Can’t you deduce it from- I don’t know- the way I wear my hair or the lint I pick from my clothes?” 

The moment spins around them, drowning out the lab, the mystery, everything and if it wouldn’t be so utterly unthinkable Sherlock could be inclined to think John is flirting with him. 

“No- I don’t… not enough data.”

“Ah, then you’ll have to be patient,” John concludes, his mirth evident behind the mock-pity of his voice. 

“John, whatever it is you think of me, I am most certainly not a patient man,” Sherlock replies, slowly so he doesn’t stutter or lose his breath halfway through.

John’s smile morphs into a bright chuckle while the twinkle in his eyes becomes positively blinding and suddenly there is a spark between them. Teetering for and back on his heels, John says “I know you’re not. You’ll like it though, I am sure. But I am afraid you will have to wait a bit longer.”

Well, Sherlock decides that, if this indeed _is_ flirting, then it is a game for two. He raises an eyebrow, acting coy. “Waiting is _boring_ , John,” he says, the long-suffering sigh and eye-roll heavily implied. His voice has turned into a deep rumble because that particular timbre appeals to John’s danger-seeking nature and instantly alerts him to a near absolute focus. Stalling, Sherlock slides down from his stool, which brings him into closer proximity to John, and he’s secretly chuffed when John doesn’t step back but instead straightens as well to align their faces. They stare at each other and this close to John Sherlock can perceive his familiar scent under the cologne, a heady mixture of tea, soap and fresh cucumber. Can see the tiny gold flecks in his eyes shine brightly. He tilts his head a bit, which, as if by design, makes John’s tongue come forward to dab his lips and Sherlock is thoroughly discombobulated.

“It’s something you need, Sherlock, something that I hope will make you happy,” John says… before he winks at him.

“John-” 

Sherlock’s voice tumbles to nothing much more than a deep whisper, a simple breath of air carrying John’s name out into the silent lab. His spine starts tingling deliciously and he wonders why John hasn’t stepped away yet and brought a safe distance between them. It all doesn’t make any sense but Sherlock, for the life of him, cannot move a single muscle. He feels a bit like a satellite out of the orbit. He can only stare, slightly drunk and out of his wits, because, _obviously_ , this isn’t a simple flirt any longer.

They are still standing close at the counter, much closer than the open room necessitates and the protruding table top Sherlock is leaning against is plunging uncomfortably into his side. Most of his weight is pressed down on his left leg where he’s shifted to accommodate within the narrow space between stool, counter and _John_ and that leg, after having perched on the hard stool for three hours straight, has gone a bit numb. In his guts, the desperate buzz throbs noticeably.

John’s ocean blue eyes are focused exclusively on him, their depth creating a distinctive _pull_ towards him. John’s small but sturdy hand is right next to his on the table, fingers twitching in the obvious and barely contained need to reach out and touch, and when his gaze flicks towards his mouth in formidable interest, Sherlock is lost at sea…

Before he can make up his mind and either ask what on _earth_ John is actually intending or follow through himself and tilt his head downwards to claim that gorgeous mouth where it so readily hovers inches before his face, several things happen simultaneously. His phone chimes again in the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and there is a clattering of footsteps behind the door to their lab before Lestrade bursts into the room.

“Hey, you guys are really here?”

For a moment everything is suspended in midair and Sherlock doesn’t know what his face is doing but he hopes his mouth hasn’t dropped open and his eyes aren’t popping out in helpless disbelief. John’s head snaps towards Lestrade, a glare contorting his features, and, to Sherlock immense regret, John steps away from the counter, the spark between them gone.

“Is everything alright?” Lestrade’s eyes narrow suspiciously but Sherlock is too gobsmacked, too shell-shocked for words.

John, though, clears his throat and sounds frustratingly collected when he addresses Lestrade.

“We’re here, Greg, yes,” he says, “why are you?”

“Ah,” Greg lifts his hands and snaps back into DI mode. “Official matters. We had this corpse that has been washed ashore near Vauxhall Bridge. Anderson thinks he’s been poisoned and I am here to see if Molly can confirm that theory.”

“Anderson said that?” John wonders and glances at Sherlock as if to prompt a snarky retort but all Sherlock can do is fall backwards on to his stool and clear his throat before trusting his voice with something as elaborate as speech. Something like cold rain crashes into him and where he has been bashful and overwhelmed before, he now is positively vibrant with white hot anger. 

“Oh, _clearly_ ,” he splutters caustically a moment later, “when that idiot Anderson says so, it would be more than wise to fully ignore this lead and concentrate on your more reliable and less stupid personnel.”

Lestrade stares at him, off-kilter. “Well, yeah, I asked Molly to- Where is she?”

John mutely points his thumb behind his shoulder towards Molly’s office but before Lestrade can take a single step, the door opens again and Molly emerges, her mobile and a small cage with two white mice in hands. 

“Sherlock, I want to talk about- Oh, Inspector,” she says and smiles uncertainly, her eyes darting between the three of them, assessing the situation and coming up worried. “I haven’t finished with the body, the last test results haven’t come in yet.”

Greg scratches his neck, sheepishly. “What about exposure to poison? Skin contact, oral taking, anything you can give me?”

“Well, perhaps, yes,” Molly amends, aiming for calm astuteness but missing in her hurry. Awkwardly slipping her mobile into the pocket of her lab coat, she puts the cage down on the counter next to John, who looks at her dubiously. Sherlock sees Molly quickly blink at him apologetically and turning towards Lestrade, she says “I think what your forensic thought was opium poisoning actually is poppy seeds, I found the remains of three pieces of poppy-seed cake in the stomach. The toxin ramifications are on a similar scale, it’s quite an easy mistake to make.”

Despite the white-hot anger and disappointment that’s coiling in his stomach, Sherlock finds himself snorting and out of the corner of his eyes he notices John staring at him. 

“Oh, who would have thought, NSY’s _finest_ ,” he spats and John cracks a tight smile. He is still watching him, and Sherlock, feeling exposed, follows the need to retread further into the known ground of defensive snarkiness to hide. 

“My goodness, any preschooler has better mental capacity than that idiot Anderson,” he splutters before regarding Lestrade closely. The man is shifting uncomfortably and shuffles his feet on the linoleum floor, refusing to give way. 

“Sherlock, what’s the matter with you? It’s not your case.” He glowers and Sherlock looks closer to pry for something he can use to derail the DI. Make him shut up and leave.

A moment later he finds it.

“You’re dressed up,” he states, and with a wave of his hand indicates Lestrade’s crisp white shirt, his orderly tie and polished shoes. He is even wearing a proper suit and Sherlock feels his hackles rise when conclusions fall into line.

“Mycroft,” he groans, because clearly, why hasn’t he seen it before? 

Molly tilts her head in wonder and out of the corner of his eyes he sees John stand straight at attention, his defensive posture a noticeable sign of how much mayhem he expects every time Mycroft involves himself into their lives. As if he wants to be suitably ready at any time to step into the breach between the brothers and keep them from the worst. As if Mycroft is to walk in here any moment, umbrella swinging from his wrist and quipping at Sherlock until he loses patience and snaps. Frankly, it’s deeply pleasing and the way John’s eyes glisten in the face of potential danger is downright captivating. But only until Sherlock remembers the last time John’s eyes have glistened that way and what Lestrade has actually interrupted. He feels a pang of infuriating regret at the terrible timing that only helps to fan his rage.

Lestrade acts as if Mycroft’s name and Sherlock’s implication don’t faze him, which only acts as the last clue Sherlock needs. He steeples his fingers under his chin, a cruel smile on his face.

“What?” John says, eyebrows shooting up when the penny drops and the conclusion strikes home. “You dress up for Mycroft?”

Sherlock snorts, nostrils flaring. “Of course he does. They’re dating. In fact, they will start tonight and Graham wants to make an impression.” He turns back to Lestrade. “What is it, Graham? Cake and cream in a secluded restaurant or at the club? I’d suggest you eat beforehand, Mycroft is so loath to share. The fact that you’re using the bloody _Valentine’s Day_ as an excuse to finally get a move on is hilarious and downright pathetic, even for you.”

Lestrade puffs up his chest. “So what if I am? At least I am dating, I am _enjoying_ myself.” He points accusingly at Sherlock, and his voice rises in indignation. “While you’re just hanging around Bart’s being an utter prick and harassing poor Molly. Who, I’ll have you know, also has a date tonight.”

“Yes, but I-“ Molly chips in but Sherlock dismisses her with an impatient wave of his hand. She immediately quietens. 

“And John as well.” 

Lestrade delivers this final statement with the force of a punch and Sherlock shakes with the blow.

They stare at each other while John’s spine stiffens further and his shoulders snap back another inch.

“Leave me out of this, mate,” he mutters darkly, his sturdy hands clenched into fists, eyes dull. Leaving the deeply confounding and frankly abominable combination of _Mycroft_ and _dating_ aside, if Sherlock has needed any more data to deduce the atrocity of John’s obviously renewed dating habits, he’s been served quite an armful. 

He growls in exasperation, the buzz in his guts turned to acid, like milk that’s gone sour. So it is true and John really had planned a date for tonight. Which is just _fantastic_. Sherlock fumes in distress and instinctually turns away from John, a sense of betrayal curling in his guts. He glares at the DI, chin held high and stubborn and wishes the man would just shut up and not fan the flames any further. 

But Lestrade misses the cue and scrunches his eyebrows at John in disbelief.

“What? You told me you were taking her out tonight, you said you’ve finally made up your mind and you have a plan and she’s beautiful. What happened?” 

John doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he pinches the bridge of his nose while two faint red spots rise on his cheeks. He has moved half a step closer to Sherlock and Sherlock bristles. 

“My _date_ ,” John clarifies sharply, emphasizing the word, “is, unfortunately, otherwise occupied.”

A chagrined expression crosses Lestrade’s face and Sherlock wants to scream. “Sorry to hear that, mate, I know you were quite smitten with that one,” he sympathizes, clearly uncomfortable, and if he’d stand any closer to John he might have actually awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. Instead he straightens both his tie and his shoulders and when he looks at Sherlock again, his chin is set.

“Mycroft told me to expect you here. Check your mobile, Sherlock, and answer your texts.”

As if on clue Sherlock’s phone chimes again. Annoyed, he fumbles around the insides of his suit jacket and gets it out. The screen is still lit with the last incoming message and Sherlock, giving it the barest of glances to just confirm the texter’s ID, huffs indignantly because Lestrade is right. 

“Did he send you here to torment me, the meddling busybody?” He turns on Lestrade. “I will not work for Mycroft. Brexit is _dull_.”

“I am just the messenger, Sherlock. Please do settle your issues without me.” Lestrade has raised his hands in a surrendering gesture, the demeanor of a man who knows a lost battle when he sees one. Now, he lets them fall again and clears his throat. “Well,” he says and the relief of having conveyed and settled what he came here for is evident in his voice. He scratches his neck, his eyes resting on John for a brief moment before he turns to leave.

“I am off. Molly, John,” he says in parting, nodding towards them but deliberately ignoring Sherlock before taking his leave. 

The silence after the door thuds closed behind the DI feels oppressive. Grabbing his coat, Sherlock turns to the counter to stiffly gather the box, velvet inlay, and cardstock. Molly has taken the flower earlier to define the toxins and Sherlock sees no reason to retrieve it now. The need to get away from this place is burning hot in his chest and his head is practically spinning. He feels like he’s been punched in the stomach and it is only now that he realizes the feeling in his guts for what it truly is: fear, dense, liquid and stifling. There is also anger, yes, a lot actually, but now that it’s gone quiet around him again, the fear is rapidly rising and wining out. He stores the remains of his anonymous present in his pockets, not minding at all whether he breaks or crumbles them, because, clearly, he is done here. And just wants to be gone. 

Rushing to the door, Sherlock doesn’t turn to check whether John follows and for a moment he is unsure whether he wants him to. Then quiet footfalls echo behind him and he’s relieved of the decision. In the pockets of his coat his hands shake around the objects where he’s grabbed them.

As he reaches the end of the corridor, the footfalls behind him a steady presence but keeping their distance, the door to the lab is thrown open again. “What about your mice, Sherlock?” Molly’s squeaky voice rings through the corridor. “I wanted to talk with you about them.” She pauses, breathless. “I gave them names.”

But Sherlock ignores her completely and is nearly grateful when he reaches the street where he hails a cab, practically tumbles into the backseat and immediately turns his head towards the window to just breathe. 

However, before the taxi can leave the kerb, the opposite door silently opens and Sherlock feels another body slide in and dip the leather seat. In the rearview mirror the cabbie raises a questioning eyebrow but Sherlock only shrugs. He doesn’t have to turn his head to know John has joined him - a whiff of tea and cologne has already given him away. John stays silent. He looks straight ahead and when Sherlock is too numb to give their Baker Street address, John does. As the cab finally takes off, the silence between them does not feel companionable. In fact, it has never felt like such an insurmountable chasm before.

*** 

In the cab Sherlock keeps his gaze fixed on the streets where they rush by outside the car window. It’s past nine o’clock but the city still buzzes with bustling energy. The pavements are full of people, mostly couples, occasionally small groups of both friends and couples. They sit in the window seats of restaurants and coffee shops and parade their togetherness beneath the trees and around busy street corners. Beneath street lamps, where the halos illuminate them like actors on stage. It is a mild, lovely evening for the fact that it is february and there are considerably more cars on the streets. No doubt more people on their way to theaters, cinemas, restaurants and the parks of London.

Sherlock hates them all with a force that is nearly all-consuming. The mere thought that John could have been one of them - sharing a small table overlooking a small park in the back of a restaurant, a candle between him and a beautiful female. Sharing desert. Strolling through the park afterwards, holding hands. Kissing in the dark. _His_ John.

Sherlock’s insides cramp because the visions hurt and John isn’t his. Likely will never be. It’s hatefully ironic how easily Sherlock is able to picture John promenading, a beautiful faceless female at his side. Long blond, wavy hair with just a hint of red. A cute little nose that wrinkles prettily. Small hands. Smaller than John’s. Soft features and voluptuous curves. Easily adaptable to John’s domestic needs, a flawless and suitable companion to every aspect of life. Everything that Sherlock is not, everything Sherlock cannot offer. Out in the most exiting city on a perfect evening, holding hands. Just like Sherlock has mock-suggested to John earlier in their sitting room. 

The cab turns a corner and stops at a red traffic light but Sherlock is too numb to bother being angry at the delay. Maybe, if he just sits still and doesn’t move while the city creeps by, if he just retreats into his mind palace and blocks out every notion, every hateful image, maybe then will he be able to endure this cab ride with John sitting so close to him their coats brush before he can escape home and exile himself to his room. 

But no, Sherlock thinks, no, he can’t. There is no hiding from the images - they’ve already taken up residence in the hallways and rooms of his mind palace and on the empty sheets and pillows of his silent bedroom.

Next to him John sits in brooding silence. It’s another three street corners until they will reach Baker Street and, briefly, Sherlock wonders if John will come upstairs home with him or whether he will disappear immediately to a pub or someone else’s place. But no, Sherlock considers, if that were the case John would have taken another car or the tube, if only just to escape the wretched atmosphere in the narrow confines of their cab.

So John obviously plans to go home and… what? Sit in his own room and be angry with Sherlock? Is John actually angry with Sherlock? And if he is, what precisely is he angry about? The whole situation is just so confusing, so overextended that Sherlock scrunches his face in agony and desperately longs for his violin. Or a cigarette.

On the seat at his side, John twitches abruptly and, despite himself, Sherlock turns, startled. 

“Stop here, we’re getting off,” John orders the cabbie and fumbles in his pockets. Before Sherlock can react anyhow, John plucks a note from his wallet and hands it to the driver, who has pulled over into a small driveway in front of a brightly illuminated restaurant. 

Sherlock stares as John beckons him to get out of the cab and opens his own door. Folding his long limbs, Sherlock listlessly spills out onto the pavement and together they watch the cab drive off, before John turns to finally look at him.

“I am starving, let’s go have dinner.”

Sherlock bristles again, internal defenses up, because there are just so many things he’d rather do than sit across an angry John that refuses to look at or talk to him. He plants his feet onto the pavement and straightens his spine, the image of steadfast reluctance, but John is having none of it. With a sigh he wilfully steps closer, puts his hand onto Sherlock’s elbow and even though their skin is separated by several layers of fabric, Sherlock’s arm immediately tingles. He huffs in exasperation and eyes John stubbornly.

“I am not hungry,” he declares and puffs up his chest to loom intimidatingly over John. If the doctor believes Sherlock will act as a pitiful replacement for a missed Valentine’s dinner with a faceless blond, then he needs to reassess and come up with another option because Sherlock will definitely not comply. 

But again John is having none of it. “This is Thai, you love Thai. Come on,” he orders before climbing the four steps up to the entrance and opening the door. 

Sherlock stalls and glares for another few seconds, but John is already charming a waitress into clearing them a table and, just on cue, his treacherous stomach rumbles.

It’s obvious that he’s lost his choice in the matter, and so, miserably, he pulls his coat tighter around himself and follows.

***

Listlessly browsing the menu card a very attentive waitress has put in front of him, Sherlock tries to deduce John without being too conspicuous about it, but the doctor’s otherwise expressible face is forcibly blank. The table they sit at is very nicely adorned with, thankfully, not too much Valentine embellishment; only a napkin with small hearts that could pass of as dots and a tiny plate with two pieces of heart shaped chocolate. There is a candle, though, and John’s silver-blond hair shines like molten gold in the soft illumination. They are sitting vis-à-vis in a lovely corner next to the window and Sherlock is careful to not bump his knees against John’s under the table. 

Under different circumstances he would have structured the evening into singular timeframes and make sure to touch his legs to John’s within each frame whenever feasible and as much as he can get away with. Just so that John doesn’t notice a pattern. He would smile as often as possible - the real smile, the one he exclusively keeps for John that makes his features lax and the skin around his eyes crinkle handsomely - without being too obvious about it. He knows he looks favorable in candlelight because it casts alluring shadows around his eyes, tints his pale skin into a softer shade of cream and brings out his cheekbones. John has once admired his cheekbones, so Sherlock shamelessly shows them off as often as possible.

He would lean forward and rest his elbows on the table top to be closer to John. Make sure he brushes his curls out of his forehead once in a while to make as much use as possible of the soft candle light and the way it illuminates his pale eyes and brings out auburn highlights in his hair.

He would make sure to create a secluded space between them that no one can breach, a space that holds John’s attention and drowns out the rest of the world.

Of course all of these measures cannot be undertaken now and, over the rim of his menu card, Sherlock eyes John warily. 

A few moments later John seems to be done reading the descriptions of the different dishes and meets Sherlock’s gaze over the menu card. “Care to share a bottle of wine?” he asks, his tone carefully neutral, and licks his lips. “Rosé or white?”

Sherlock stares and, for a moment, John stares back at him, before he nudges his knee to Sherlock’s under the table and turns his menu card to prompt a decision. “And what do you want to eat?”

“I said I am not hungry,” he repeats his earlier words but John only twitches his lips. “Look, choose, eat, you probably haven’t all day,” John orders and sternly peruses his menu card again even though Sherlock is sure John has set his mind on Pho. John has loved Pho ever since that disastrous chase of a criminal that has thrown a knife at Sherlock before dumping John into the October Thames. In the cab home Sherlock had searched the internet for a restaurant with outstanding soup, preferably very hot, while John had shivered pitifully in Sherlock’s coat, muttering about a hot bath, which he’d prepared immediately upon arriving at Baker Street. Sherlock had ordered Pho and they’ve eaten it in the loo, John in the tub, a towel drabbed around him to blanket the warmth, and Sherlock perched on the toilet seat. They had laughed a lot during their meal, so it’s quite a fond memory and Sherlock harbors it dearly.

Across from him, John has given up waiting for him and waves at the waitress. Before Sherlock can do so much as blink, the girl is at their table, a big smile on her face and when John attentively smiles back at her, her eyes begin to shine with the attention. Sherlock seethes and clamps his mouth shut in recalcitrance. John is a handsome man, he concedes, charming and likable, and since he isn’t Sherlock’s, John can technically smile at whomever he likes. Females certainly like that smile of John’s.

“We’ll have a bottle of rosé, please and six different starters.”

Which are all finger food, Sherlock presumes, and while John ticks them off to the waitress, Sherlock’s face wins the fight against his mood and he cracks a smile. Trust John to surprise and accommodate him and find the things on the menu that Sherlock can easily steal while he studiously keeps on pretending he doesn’t want to eat at all. 

***

In the end it turns out to be quite a good dinner. The starters and wine are delicious and John pretends to not notice Sherlock stealing more than his fair share of steamed rolls and backed prawn. He even orders a second helping of both dishes and doesn’t bat an eye when Sherlock eats them all, licking sauce from his fingers afterwards. In fact, John tries to hide a fond smile in his wine glass and ostensibly looks the other way. Both conspiratorially fail to address these circumstances and the atmosphere around them noticeably mellows. Sherlock feels placated as they, tentatively, discuss a second bottle of wine while John visibly relaxes and, may it be by design or mistake, bumps his knee repeatedly to Sherlock’s under the table. However, when the waitress approaches them again, John is only half as attentive as before and they only order coffee and a small helping of steamed banana with coconut flakes and honey, which Sherlock tremendously enjoys.

After he’s finished off the last scraps from their plates, Sherlock leans back in his chair and lets his gaze pan out and roam the room. Letting it repeatedly brush over John where he reclines in his chair, hands relaxed on the table between them, Sherlock puts his leg tentatively to brush John’s and considers his situation. John hasn’t checked his phone again, which can only mean that he’s given up on his original dating plans. Yes, Sherlock may still not know why John decided to ignore or forgo the awkward atmosphere around them and have dinner with him. Whether Sherlock is actually nothing more than a stopgap or _what on earth_ has happened between them in the lab. However, beneath the table John hasn’t pulled his leg away and a Valentine’s dinner with John, Sherlock decides, is actually something definitely worth repeating. 

And, yes, he loves Thai.

When Sherlock returns from the loo, he is surprised to find John has already covered their check and is holding Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock wordlessly lets John help him into it, steadfastly refusing to read more into the gesture because John is an attentive person and _more_ is just _not on_. 

“The food was heavenly,” John states with a relaxed smile and Sherlock, from the bottom of his heart, can only agree. He turns and makes for leaving when John stops him.

“Don’t you want your heart?” John enquires and raises a playful eyebrow. He has already unwrapped one of the small chocolate hearts and is gingerly popping it into his mouth. Sherlock stares at the pink tip of his tongue where it touches the chocolate and considers because, yes, his sweet-tooth demands him to have at it but, as it is, he feels already nearly uncomfortably full.

“No, you can have it,” Sherlock negates and tugs up his collar, “It’s yours.”

John raises the other eyebrow, his hand that has already reached out to take the heart freezes hovering above their table. He hums in lieu of an answer and just then Sherlock realizes what exactly he has said, has implied with his careless choice of words and he instantly mourns the fact that the ground beneath his feet studiously refrains from opening up to swallow him whole. 

***

Outside the restaurant Sherlock fidgets with embarrassment and thoroughly berates himself for his lapse. He can’t believe he’s made such a fool out of himself because, clearly, John has noticed. He _must_ have. John is smart and observant and, mixed signals be damned, Sherlock has practically worn his heart on his sleeve half of the day. First in the lab when John had gotten so close Sherlock had nearly forgotten himself and kissed him. His visible jealousy afterwards when he found out John had actually planned a date with someone else. The prospect of Lestrade going on a date with Mycroft, of all people; of _Mycroft_ and _dating_ in one sentence. Then their legs under the table and now the bloody heart-shaped Valentine’s chocolate that just acts as the last straw. Sherlock’s been so bloody obvious about everything. Moreover, he might just have disrupted the carefully restored atmosphere around them, because he’s a pathetic, lovesick fool and obviously not immune to goldfish tendencies, to something as pedestrian and illogical as sentiments.

If that self-assessment wasn’t such a disappointment in everything he prides himself with, Sherlock would be utterly annoyed. Because this is decidedly not how to keep the darkness away. The darkness of failure. Of loss.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

If he were to ever fall for someone again, of course it would have been someone like John. Someone smart, affectionate, compassionate, handsome and non-boring. Someone he can respect and who respects him in return for what and who he is. That is most important, and a lesson he’s learned the hard way. John does all that, the respect, the affection; at least up to a point as is feasible among friends, though not lovers. If John ever leaves, the consequences will be dire. Sherlock will succumb to darkness again, he will be lost, he will…

“Ready?”

Sherlock’s head snaps up when John steps next to him on the pavement and smiles uneasily. There is something complicated in his eyes again but the light is too fickle for closer examination. Sherlock breathes so he is able to hide his panic. To brush it off and pretend he’s just taking deep lungfuls of mild, spicy night air.

They are still standing in front of the restaurant, unmoving, and John eyes him intently. The restaurant door opens again and in the light that spills out onto the streets, something in John’s eyes change. It’s just a moment, though, barely more than a blink of an eye, and when Sherlock tries to look closer, John has already turned and adjusts his jacket. Sherlock frowns.

“Would you mind walking back home?” John asks, softly, “It’s not too far and I’ve eaten rather a lot.”

“Yes, if you wish to,” Sherlock reservedly agrees and finds himself taken aback by the fact that John obviously doesn’t want to rush home and lock himself into his room. His guts still feel uneasy when he falls into step beside John as they head for the near park.

***

Regent’s Park at night is beautiful. The air is clear and mild, with a bit of a fresh wind, and the pathways amidst the scattered street lamps are emptied of the buzzing crowd that certainly must have enjoyed the afternoon here earlier. Stray couples occasionally pass them but no one really lingers around the playgrounds and university buildings at around half past ten on a february night. The library sports a few illuminated windows but once they pass Triton’s Fountain and the open air theatre, they don’t meet anyone else again. 

They meander a bit aimlessly after leaving the direct path back to Baker Street. It has seemed to Sherlock that, for once, he was following John but John could as well have been following him. Sherlock doesn’t really question it and it actually doesn’t really matter in the great scheme of things. After his lapse in the restaurant the air around them feels tight again despite the park’s spaciousness. They don’t really talk, they only make the occasional remark about what they see on their path, about the food and whether John has a shift at the clinic the next day. They carefully omit everything that revolves around either Sherlock’s anonymous Valentine’s present, John’s shattered dating plans or the dating prospects of their friends and associates. Once in a while Sherlock glances at John and feels John glance back in return when Sherlock isn’t looking and the air around them turns more and more static. Sherlock wonders when it will burst. It’s obvious John wants to say something - Sherlock has seen it in his eyes after they’ve left the restaurant and ventured into the park. The look has never left really left John’s eyes. The question is only, what exactly it is John wishes to say and Sherlock finds himself whole-heartedly dreading the moment John will finally say it. 

This whole talking thing, the need to give voice to circumstance and sentiment is really and utterly ridiculous and Sherlock huffs in annoyance. It’s all tedious. John and he have never really talked, hadn’t needed to, because there had always been an understanding between them that didn’t require discussing things at lengths. They had taken to one another’s lives, had evolved around each other, gravitated around each other and things had been fine. Sherlock had led the way and John had, albeit grudgingly sometimes, accepted the direction and followed, attuning to his views and situational needs as they went and even when Sherlock had come back after his fall, there hadn’t really been a proper discussion. Sherlock had maneuvered them into a life-threatening situation and John had followed. Over a bomb about to blow up Sherlock had explained the rudimentary basics, had apologized in the passing and John had forgiven him; that had been that. Ten days later John had moved back into 221b and it all had been sufficient and satisfying. A satisfying outcome they could both very well live with.

Now, though, Sherlock feels that isn’t enough anymore; that they are on the brink of something entirely different, something that will change the way they are around each other for ever. Something that will either make or break them. Probably the latter. Maybe it’s just in his head but everything that has happened today has made him aware of the fact that he cannot follow the path they have obviously set for themselves any longer. There is too much tension, too much frustration, yearning… too much unclarified. He cannot fathom what it is John wants to convey, he’s lacking viable data, so the only thing he can indulge in is guessing. 

And Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do guessing. 

All the data he has so far collected about John lead to two possible courses of action: If Sherlock _does_ say anything, gives voice to his feelings, his attraction and, inevitably, his unsuitability and uncertainties, if he lays himself bare at John’s feet, there is a distinctive chance that John might leave. Or let him down, which would make things less final but more awkward and probably result in John leaving in the long run. That way only darkness lies and Sherlock actually dreads to face the consequences of a life without his conductor of light. Two years he’d waited to be with John again and resume their former life at Baker Street and so far they are doing a pretty good job of it. However, Sherlock knows he wants more and biding his time until a moment that might as well never come is just excruciating. 

However, if he _doesn’t_ say anything, they will resume their precarious dance right at the edge, forever stuck in limbo. 

Another notion he cannot disregard is, no matter what Sherlock decides to do, no matter his proclivity, this is a matter of delicacy and not something he could just decide for them both, put his foot down and barrel through. He cannot just announce his conclusion and expect John to follow along like the doctor does on cases. Like he does on most of their ventures, on most of the things they indulge in. He cannot convince John to be with him in _that_ way or force him, because Sherlock knows that, after five years, John either feels it or he doesn’t and there is nothing Sherlock can do about it. 

He glances over to where John walks beside him, hands stiff at his hips, back military straight. They have fallen into silence again and Sherlock considers. If John could only just see it. Just look at him and be aware of what is lingering between them, what Sherlock has put there. The jealousy. The want. The desire. _The love_. See it and either embrace it with both arms and never let go or huff and turn the other way. No matter the outcome, it would certainly render all this tedious talking irrelevant.

But, no, even if it all pans out to Sherlock’s desire, it probably wouldn’t, because John is a romantic and would want to verbally acknowledge something as life-changing as a potential romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock fidgets, tugging his hands into his pockets only to brush the respective parts of his anonymous present and tears them out again, as if burned. He adjusts his scarf but it’s all to no avail. The tension between them is palpable in the way John’s glancing at him has increased in the last minutes, has intensified in its focus and Sherlock is close to panicking again.

Which is just intolerable. No matter the delicacy, John and his sentiments, or lack thereof, shouldn’t be allowed to frighten him so much. To render him helpless, a delicate flower in a strong gust of wind. Anger curdles his stomach because he simply cannot give all his control away and let someone else be in charge. He’s spent years suppressing the darkness that entails a threat to his emotional equilibrium and he isn’t Sherlock Holmes, the great detective that sees everything and can entertain deductions with even the tiniest scrap of data, for nothing. He may not be able to circumvent confirming their status quo and find out if it all goes to hell once he declares himself, but he can certainly make sure John declares first. Or at least gives him enough information to conclude if it’s all worth the effort, the pain in his chest and the yearning buzz in his guts, and where exactly he stands. If Sherlock can coax John into revealing enough, then maybe he’ll be able to protect what’s his. Even if what’s his is just a scrap of pitted dignity.

Just as he pulls all his wits together, heaving in a large breath and gearing up for what he cannot circumvent, John nervously licks his lips beside him and clears his throat.

“Are you angry with me, Sherlock?”

Though the question sounds matter-of-factly, John’s voice is soft. Sherlock can only stare because, whatever he’s expected to happen now, it’s not that and, first of all, there is no way at all that he could be angry about his own shortcomings with someone as perfect and scintillating as John Watson.

“Why would I be angry with you?” he retorts, incredulous, then thinks and amends, “I could ask you the same question, John.”

John abruptly stops in his tracks and Sherlock, having continued their meanderings for a couple more steps, has to turn around to face him.

John shakes his head vigorously when he says, “No, no, I am not angry with you, why would you think that? It’s me who-“ He waves a hand through the air, lost for words. “I don’t really understand what’s going on, to be frank.” He moves and a moment later he is standing right in front of Sherlock, feet planted into the ground and shoulders set in a firm line.

Sherlock tears away his gaze and lets it roam over the trees and pathways around them, while he tries to collect himself for the ensuing manipulation. Hands hanging at his side, he aims for a casual stance but probably misses by a mile. It is quite dark around them, though, and John is less observant when he’s emotional, so the chances are high that the deception goes undetected.

“Your day didn’t progress as planned,” he states firmly. “You would have preferred it to have another conclusion.” He knows his words sound clinical but he’s found that passionless science is the best approach of every problem. 

John stares at him for a moment, then nods, wary as if he isn’t sure what Sherlock is aiming at. “Yes, absolutely,” he agrees. His ocean blue gaze fixes on him again but Sherlock finds himself missing the lovely tiny gold dots. Fear tickles back into his guts but Sherlock refuses to let it cloy him. 

“What do you think would have been _my_ preferred day, what were _your_ plans?” John asks a moment later, eyes curious now and brows furrowed. 

“ _My_ plans? I didn’t have any plans when you’ve called me away from an experiment.”

John’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t exactly call you away, Sherlock, I merely told you to expect a delivery.”

“Yes, and ever since I _received_ a delivery you’ve been in quite a foul mood.”

John nods again, conceding the point. “Yes, I guess you could say that,” he agrees, “but, frankly, I was actually hoping for something else tonight.”

“I know what you’ve been hoping for,” Sherlock says hotly, hackles rising, because he can only imagine too well, “and I am sorry you didn’t get it, I am sorry the day didn’t exactly live up to your expectations.” _It’s not my fault, you could just have chosen me instead_ thankfully gets stuck just below his Adam’s apple. 

Sherlock huffs in annoyance. So much for calm and skillful manipulation; navigating the tricky waters of his sentiments while he’s sentimental is very, very frustrating, nearly as much as not being able to reign in said sentiments and do what he’s good at. He’s close to just tear himself away from John, go home and hide in his bedroom to lick his wounds. Maybe get drunk, he thinks sardonically, humans seem to enjoy inebriation a lot when things don’t turn out as they desire. He could as well get drunk tonight.

“No, it didn’t, Sherlock, but I guess you running after every half-cooked mystery that presents itself is just something I cannot change.” Fuming, John crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares up at Sherlock.

“Oh, come on, John, you didn’t have to come to Bart’s with me. If you had other plans, you could have just followed through with them.”

John hesitates a moment and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What do you know of my plans for tonight?” he finally asks but it’s rhetorically and with an air of defeat, and it’s that moment, where it occurs to Sherlock that they may be talking about completely different things. There’s obviously something off, something he’s missing and his features scrunch in bemusement and fury. 

Fury wins out.

“Dinner and a stroll through the park with a stupid, faceless female that cancels on you?” Sherlock sums up, annoyed he’s phrasing it as a question, before he shakes his head and glares indignantly. “You should’ve at least chosen someone more worthy of your attention, someone who doesn’t cancel on you and your _perfect_ evening at the last minute.” It’s quite terrifying how angry he can get at his own voice stating facts, because Sherlock would _never_ cancel on John if he ever invited him out on a Valentine’s date. It is just too stupid to even consider.

To his surprise John’s brows shoot upwards and he abruptly uncrosses his arms. Stepping closer to Sherlock, who immediately backs away half a step, he raises a hand and shakes it in negation. “No, no,” he says and a befuddled look comes into his eyes. “Sherlock, what are you talking about? Those weren’t my plans. And what faceless female?”

Sherlock stares because something, _explicitly_ , is off about the whole situation. He was expecting John to grumble and then admit everything, maybe even accuse him of ruining his attempts at a more carnal progress to tonight’s dating plans, because Sherlock is right and there are no secrets that John with his expressive face could ever hide from him. However, he didn’t expect John to look genuinely bewildered.

“What faceless female, Sherlock?” John inquires again, sharply, and when Sherlock still doesn’t answer, he surges forward and grabs his wrist. Sherlock has a sudden flashback to how John has grabbed his wrist earlier in their sitting room to keep him from handling presumed explosives. He swallows and forces his face into a blank mask.

“The one you kept texting at the lab.”

The words are spoken with the vitriolic ring of hurt and confusion and the hurt wins. Sherlock is suddenly thunderous. Does John really need to have it all spelled out into morsels before him? Why doesn’t he just come forward with the truth so Sherlock can go home and shoot the wall?

To his surprise the doctor huffs a laugh and a bit of the twinkle that Sherlock adores so much comes back into his eyes. “Oh, that’s it, I get it. My god, Sherlock, you... Are you- No - Could you be… jealous? But I thought…” Shaking his head John says, “I texted with Molly at the lab, you git. _Molly_.” John stares at him before a moment later something shifts in his face again and he smiles a fond smile, completely and utterly throwing Sherlock for a loop. 

“Why would you text with Molly? She was _there_ ,” Sherlock inquires lamely but the feeling that he might be missing something about their conversation returns with full force.

“I think we should start at the beginning, Sherlock.” John’s voice is calm and steady. He is still gripping Sherlock’s wrist but his fingers have slacked a bit and slipped down to Sherlock’s palm. A look of determination comes into his eyes. “I was texting Molly at the lab,” he explains, “because she asked me if you’ve gotten your present. To tell you the truth she encouraged me in buying it for you in the first place. I thought it would help me get things along. Make myself clear. But instead of mine you received someone else’s and that has gotten you all worked up and I confess I was pissed that you dragged me off to Bart’s when all I wanted was for you to receive and open _mine_.”

“You said it was something I needed, John. What is it? And why would you…” Sherlock trails off and gestures to John with his free hand. If he can coax John into revealing what exactly the present entails, then it would be another clue. But John only huffs another laugh.

“Why do you think I’d give you something you don’t need?” John asks, incredulous, before stopping himself and shaking his head dismissively. “We’ll come to that,” he placates and squeezes Sherlock’s hand reassuringly. He doesn’t let go, though, and Sherlock cannot fathom why but right now, John is speaking again. “Just let me get this straight first because whatever you’ve cooked up in that massive brain of yours, you got that bit wrong. There is no female.” Sherlock can practically see John gearing up to the next words. “Likely will never be.”

Underneath John’s sturdy fingers, where they rest against his palm, Sherlock’s pulse picks up pace and thrums, fast and unmistakable, and Sherlock must have turned his wrist somehow because suddenly his hand lies properly in John’s, holding onto it. As they regard one another, Sherlock thinks that, perhaps, talking isn’t such a tedious thing at all and perhaps he might indeed succeed in extrapolating John’s emotional disposition and how he would react to Sherlock’s. He clears his throat and just makes to ask for more data to figure out what`s behind it all and has tainted the atmosphere around them, when a sudden wind emerges. It’s not strong, not a proper breeze where it caresses his face, but with itself it carries a whiff of John’s cologne. Along with that other scent that, after five years, Sherlock knows to be uniquely John. 

“John-,” Sherlock starts, confused and unsure about how to proceed with the sentence but John talks over him.

“Can’t you deduce it?” John asks into the wind and turns up his chin. The tiny gold flecks in his eyes are very dark in the weak light around them but, nevertheless, they are there again. As is John’s scent of cucumber and tea. Sherlock’s eyes close of their own volition as he inhales deeply, quite overwhelmed and heart pounding and when he opens them again, the spark between them has flared back to life. 

“I’ve bought you a Valentine’s present, Sherlock, “John whispers and tightens his hand around Sherlock’s. “Surely that should tell you what you’re so obviously missing.” 

“Tell me what?” Sherlock asks, cautiously, because, clearly, he must be misinterpreting John’s prompt. John’s ocean blue eyes are fixed on him, as if calculating the earnestness of Sherlock’s question and whether it is worth an elaboration or olive branch, and Sherlock fidgets beneath the glow of John’s attention. A lack of female involvement on what John has already confessed were indeed plans for the night, and a present announced in a text message to pique his interest and get him home. John’s ensuing jealousy when Sherlock had received what another, entirely mysterious and unobtainable person has bestowed upon him for reasons not yet fully discovered. Surely that points into a certain direction. But is it really that simple? Could John really…?

While Sherlock is still staring and pushing data around in his head until deductions fall in line, John, apparently, reaches his own conclusion. He sighs and, with a surefooted movement that speaks heavily of resolve and determination, steps right in front of Sherlock and looks up into his eyes as if waiting. John is a proud man though he hides it well and Sherlock is glad to notice their height difference doesn’t seem to cow him. It’s not exactly favorable for him, though, but before Sherlock can do so much as cock a puzzled eyebrow at him, John goes and tugs at his hand, bringing him down a couple inches, while simultaneously rising to his toes. Sherlock stumbles forward, his body closing the last inches of space between them before coming to rest at John’s chest. Head ducking in surprise, he is rendered powerless when John’s hand glides up his elbow to rest on his shoulder, where it entertains the barest of pressures. Just enough to ensure the visibility of his intension, but not enough that Sherlock cannot break away. 

Sherlock doesn’t break away and John tilts his chin, before his ocean blue eyes flutter close and his lips meet Sherlock’s.

The only response Sherlock finds himself capable of is letting it happen. When John’s mouth collides with his, he freezes, blinks and immediately runs a scan over his whole body and where it touches John’s to assure himself that this is really happening. But since John doesn’t pull back and instead presses his lips more firmly against Sherlock’s, it is indeed happening. A frisson jolts through him but the warmth that follows in its wake is soothing and comforting where it pools in Sherlock’s guts and he shapes up and presses back before his shocked rigidness can deter John and let him come to the wrong conclusion.

“ _This_ is my perfect evening, Sherlock,” John whispers against his lips when they part. The doctor is short of breath and his eyes flicker over Sherlock’s face, no doubt gauging his reaction. They are still standing very close; John has tugged their locked hands between them and holds them pressed to his chest. His left thumb caresses the knuckles of Sherlock right hand, while John’s other arm rests around Sherlock’s shoulder, palm flat against his neck. Holding, not pinning him in place. 

“You said your date was otherwise occupied,” Sherlock stumbles to say and his eyes involuntarily flicker back to John’s lips. The lips that have just kissed him and still shine with that kiss.

“But you were,” John empathizes, though his voice is soft, “You were busy with that box and the flower.” The fingers of his hands on Sherlock’s neck slide upwards into the curls at Sherlock’s nape where they tangle and caress cautiously. As if soothing a wild animal about to bolt. It makes Sherlock’s pulse thrum in his veins and he is sure John can feel it beneath the skin and tendons of his neck. 

An “Oh” escapes his lips as everything falls into place and finally, blissfully, the context of John's reaction and words at home and later in the lab make just that much more sense.

Shocked into rigidness once again Sherlock states at him as he realizes that not only has John entangled their miscommunication but also has just gone and made a move that is essentially irrevocable; a move he couldn’t know the outcome of. The amount of amazement and stunned surprise that hits him a moment later is breathtaking and, abruptly, Sherlock feels unable to catch his breath. With the determination of a man who willfully steps onto a frozen lake without any means to know whether the ice will hold or break and let him drown John has made a move so brave that Sherlock can only stare. A small immanent part in his mind revolts and suspects deception, manipulation, but, a moment later, Sherlock finds confirmation in John’s whispered confession.

“I’ve only ever planned a date with you. _You_ , love, and no one else.”

Sherlock’s blood sings with the words and his reaction is instinctive when he tilts forward to capture John’s mouth again. Instantaneously, John leans into him and where their first kiss was tentative and chaste, a statement kiss to convey intention, the seconds quickly morphs into something different, something considerably more wanton. John eagerly laps at his lower lip and Sherlock readily accepts the invitation and opens his mouth to brush their tongues together. Heat courses through him, making him skittish and clumsily as he pulls John closer, bumping noses and torn between the desire to rake his hands over John’s body to touch as much as possible and grip both his hands and encircle them in his so John can never pull away. 

Noticing his awkwardness, John pulls him flush to his chest, nuzzling his jaw and as the first graze of sharp teeth pulls at the delicate flesh under his ear where his scarf has been pushed out of the way, Sherlock lifts his head, a deep moan rumbling through his throat. John groans and presses a soothing kiss on the teased flesh before coming back to his mouth. 

He touches his tongue to Sherlock’s again, firm and reassuring and hot and the last time someone had kissed Sherlock like that, it had been a brief prelude to more and all too soon had found Sherlock spread on an untidy bed with his legs splayed wide open. Only perfunctory kisses had been bestowed on him in the course of action, taking the real pleasure elsewhere. 

On sharp contrast, John devotes himself to the task of snogging Sherlock senseless, just for the sake of snogging him senseless; with utter enthusiasm. He’s kissing him like he tastes a rare delicacy, fully, with detail and reverence for the outstanding. One capable hand has come down from Sherlock’s shoulder to rest at the crest of his hips, while the other still holds his right hand in a loose grasp. Presently, John shifts those hands to his own neck and Sherlock is pleased to notice his scarf has come askew, enabling him to touch warm curves of strong neck and caress one earlobe with just the tips of his fingers. Underneath, John’s pulse is fast and throbbing. 

John is utterly invested and Sherlock is at his command; the warmth spreading from all the places John touches him to tingle over his entire body is thoroughly overwhelming. A flash of ocean blue eyes and Sherlock is once more lost at sea, panting when John takes mercy on him and releases his lips to rest their brows together. Peripherally, Sherlock is relieved to notice John is panting, too.

“How come Lestrade knew about your plans?” he asks, trying to catch his breath in the narrow space between their faces before he leans backwards a bit. “What did you tell him?” It’s actually not Lestrade that matters here. Sherlock doesn’t care about Lestrade’s opinion but the thought of someone else being privy to the knowledge of John’s emotional investment feels decidedly off and Sherlock is loath to not be the first to have gained that knowledge. Especially since John has called him ‘love’. He may have heard people giving other people endearments without any deeper meaning or intentions towards a permanent investment, but John doesn’t belong to them. John would want a more permanent agreement between them. Would he…? 

Sherlock swallows convulsively.

“He didn’t know, at least not fully,” John answers, oblivious to Sherlock’s inner turmoil. “He asked me if I had plans, I confirmed and told him I’d made up my mind about someone. He asked me whether she’s beautiful and I didn’t see any reason to correct every detail of his assumptions.”

Despite himself laughter bubbles out of Sherlock and John leans forward to kiss it off his lips. “Don’t get me wrong, Sherlock,” he says, giggling and still gloriously breathless, “I didn’t correct the gender part but very much emphasized that my chosen date was indeed beautiful.” John looks at him and his eyes grow serious. “I also emphasized you were brilliant and breathtaking, utterly unique and I had never in my life met anyone like you. ” He huffs an incredulous laugh, shaking his head but not breaking their eye contact. “That he didn’t realize it was you I was talking about is beyond me.” Serious again, he continues, “I also told him that I want you and that it isn’t just a fling. I- I am serious. I’ve made up my mind and I don’t want to be a coward any longer. So…” he hesitates, “…what do you say?”

John’s eyes are dark pools of ocean water and Sherlock gets the notion that, if John thinks he’s a coward, then that makes two of them. 

“You’re not,” Sherlock whispers and is very glad that it’s night around them. “You’re… you,” he stutters awkwardly, ridiculously, because his brain cannot come up with a more sophisticated answer. Moreover, Sherlock is downright mortified when said brain supplies an even more ridiculous statement. “You want me, too.”

John doesn’t seem to mind because he tips his head back and smiles, his eyes ablaze with light. “That I do, and have for a very long time. We don’t need to discuss this at lengths, Sherlock, I am sure you’d rather we didn’t but...” John trails off but then squares his jaw in determination and Sherlock finds he’s actually holding his breath.

“I want to _be_ with you, love, ” he says and bites his bottom lip before he straightens to his full height and firmly locks eyes with Sherlock again, before his next words thoroughly shock him into silence, “for a very long time, if you’re… amenable.”

Sherlock is so lost, so stunned, he blinks and blinks and blinks. Whatever he might have been expecting their stroll in the park to accomplish, it certainly wasn’t that. It wasn’t John offering his deepest heart’s desire on _bloody Valentine’s Day_ , of all days and it’s ridiculous, it’s pathetic, utterly tedious and yet Sherlock’s hearts thuds so wildly in his chest, he’s afraid it might actually break free and soar up to dance across the sky. 

Mutely, he leans forwards to claims John’s mouth again but then just bashfully pecks his lips, twice, and hopes that’s enough of an answer. John’s eyes follow his mouth as he straightens himself and as they lift upwards to once again lock into his, Sherlock thinks that, the last time he’s looked into a lover’s eyes, he has looked into darkness. Now, however, as he looks into John’s where they are standing together among the dark patches of lawn at Regent’s Park, with the street lamps so far away it feels as if the world has sunken into an eternal night, the only thing he sees is light. 

“Tell me it’s not flowers, your present”, Sherlock rasps, leaning forward and tightening his arms around John’s stalwart form. John’s answering laughter is deliciously ragged and breathless.

“No,” he says, “it’s not flowers. Men don’t get flowers on Valentine’s Day, they don’t” and Sherlock joints in his laughter, affectionately pecking John’s nose. They look at each other and John’s open smile is nearly blinding. It makes Sherlock’s heart lurch hard in his chest.

A moment later they break apart and John’s hand tightens around Sherlock’s and they intertwine their fingers.

“Let’s go home?” he proposes and takes half a step backwards to turn down the path leading them to Baker Street. Sherlock lets himself be tugged along, their eyes meeting every few seconds and while their strides gradually pick up pace, the buzz in Sherlock’s guts picks up simultaneously and he wonders if his rather innocent fantasies about John will be overwritten with something more tactile tonight, something less innocent once they reach their flat.

***

Sherlock blinks awake to his daylight bedroom and to legs tangled with his legs and arms that engulf his waist and shoulders under crinkled sheets. Listening in to himself for a moment, he finds the buzz has quieted down and his body feels pleasantly heavy, like gravity has picked up a notch overnight and now exerts a stronger pull to weight him down into the mattress with 1.3 times his actual weight. He flexes his neck and rolls his head to the left to check the alarm clock on his bedside table, but at some point during the night it must have toppled over and Sherlock is unable to see the digits. His whole bedside table actually is askew and Sherlock thinks he might have bumped his elbow into it when John had gone down on him. 

Rolling his head back into the pillow, he squints towards the window to estimate the time through the angle of sunlight that spills into the room, but the day is overcast and the results therefore inconclusive. Sherlock hums and on his chest, John’s arm flexes before tightening firmly around him and pulling him even closer. Which is quite a feat, Sherlock admires, because John is already wrapped up so tight around him; it feels quite possessive, yes, but also deeply _right_. Sherlock grins, chuffed to bits, and his grin widens, when John’s nose twitches and golden lashes flutter to let ocean blue eyes set on him. John’s smile is soft and sleepy and _happy_ when he blinks up at him and Sherlock is reminded of how John had smiled at him last night at Regent’s Park. Before they’ve gone home.

True to his proposal John hadn’t fussed with continuing their rather aimless stroll through Regent’s Park and had led Sherlock down the quickest route to Baker Street. There, he’d taken Sherlock up the stairs, out of his clothes and into bed with a single-minded determination that had let Sherlock to deduce he himself hadn’t been the only one engaging in fantasies of a certain nature. His warm hands, capable mouth and strong body had spread Sherlock onto the sheets where John had devoured him well into the early hours of the morning until Sherlock couldn’t remember either his name or where his body ended and John’s began. 

Now that that’s been settled, Sherlock thinks gleefully, he doesn’t have to grumbly clamp his mouth shut and swallow a caustic retort when Mrs. Hudson loudly presumes they live in sin. Because, clearly, now they do and it’s glorious.

At first he’d been bashfully quiet when John had practically whipped him out of his garments, scattering them carelessly to be left where they fell, joined by John’s only moments later. It had been such a long time since he’d last engaged in carnal pleasures and at first had found it surreal and strange to follow John’s lead and let biology and sentiments wash over him. He’d felt utterly vulnerable, a tiny bit stupid and utterly unprepared for the onslaught. But John had simply kissed him, encouraged and reassured him and soon had him reduced to soft moans, thrusting hips and wandering hands. Everything outside his bed had been rendered irrelevant and utterly dismissible. Being touched by John and touching him in return had allowed his baser nature to surface, a nature that wants to smell and hold, kiss and taste. To claim and be claimed in return and at some point he’d given himself over to the rush that is all _John_ , and let the waves crash over him. Let himself be sucked under water only to be washed back ashore, breathless and shaking. And John had shaken him thoroughly, both with his revelations in the park and his hands, skin and mouth in his bed. He’d lost his awkwardness when John’s strong body had pressed him into the mattress and his mouth had whispered glorious praise and endearments into his ears that had thoroughly taken hold in his mind and Sherlock truly cannot say when exactly they’d finally fallen into a sated slumber, strung out and deeply pleased within the soft and warm presence of each other.

One thought comes to mind, though, and Sherlock’s smile turns snoot-like as he vows to move hell to _never_ let Mycroft and Lestrade know he’s been granted his heart’s desire on the completely absurd an embarrassingly pathetic Valentine’s Day, _of all days_.

“Good morning,” John rumbles and his voice is so raspy and deliciously deep that Sherlock feels its vibrations weave through his body where it touches John’s.

“Good morning,” he replies and John smiles at him and lazily kisses his chin. Sherlock may have been too strung out a few hours ago to fully appreciate the afterglow, the cuddling, but he happily indulges now. Lifting his arms to encompass John, he strokes over sturdy shoulders and a delicately muscled back before his fingers move over strong arms upwards to tangle into short strands of silver-blond hair. John huffs a lazy breath and Sherlock instantly decides, that, lackadaisical, warm and naked in his bed is how he likes John best in the morning.

John reaches up and ruffles Sherlock’s hair affectionately. “You look sexy, all sleepy and rumbled. Debauched.” The last word is added for good measure and Sherlock’s heart is so full of fluttery affection for John, he squirms and doesn’t know what to do with the spare energy that surges through him every time John smiles at him. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffs and when John smiles even wider and nudges him playfully in the ribs, Sherlock sits up, lets John’s upper body slip into his lap and leans forward to cup his hands around John’s tanned face. “Utterly ridiculous.” He touches his lips to John’s for a second and feels giddy and happy when John encircles one wrist to keep him there.

They kiss for endless seconds without letting it tumble into more, content with each other when John’s phone that he’s kept in the pockets of his jeans chimes with a text. John isn’t fazed and leans further up and into Sherlock, though it’s an awkward position the way he’s perched in Sherlock’s lap, back curved and all weight on his right arm. Then the phone chimes again and Sherlock breaks the kiss, but hovers closely. “You don’t want to get that?”

“No,” John exclaims, leaning upwards again to nuzzle his nose into the warm space behind Sherlock right ear. “It’s not important.” John is warm under his hands, skin smooth with just a dusting of blond hair around his pectorals. His kisses are languorous and wet and deliciously stubbly but something is nagging in the back of Sherlock’s head and it’s not the fact that he’s asked the exact same question just last evening and John has answered in exactly the same words. He straightens his spine and looks down at John.

“Have you checked all your messages from yesterday?” he asks, more curious and a tad suspicious because, usually, _he_ is the one that gets all the messages and John mostly receives his from either the clinic, Lestrade or himself, Sherlock. “Go, check,” he prompts and John rolls his eyes but gets up and angles for his phone. He fumbles a bit in his jeans, untangles it and frowns. “It’s your brother.”

Crossing his legs under himself he swats at Sherlock where he tries to pinch John’s phone and they both frown at each other. Mycroft next to never texts John for the sake of texting John. He usually only resorts to conveying a message to John when Sherlock is unavailable or simply ignores him and Mycroft is counting on John to get his meaning across. If only in infuriating Sherlock enough to pick up his own phone and text a curt reply. Sherlock doesn’t think John is hiding something from him, another chat partner or other vital goings-on but a surge of familiar jealousy towards everything that he has to share John with gurgles through his guts at the interruption and he suddenly detests Mycroft and his meddling with a force he hasn’t known since university.

Next to him John opens his messages. “He’s texted twice, I didn’t check the one from last night, couldn’t be bothered. He’s telling me to tell you to stop being childish and ignoring your phone.” John chuckles and Sherlock dramatically rolls his eyes. 

“God, I _told_ him I won’t be consulting or investigating his rogue MP, there is nothing as boring as Brexit, why can’t he just shove off?” Sherlock grumbles in annoyance and is startled by John abruptly sitting up straight and holding his phone closer to his face. “Oh.”

“What?”

John looks bemusedly at him. “I’ve just gotten a mail from- oh, my god, I don’t believe it. Radio-silence yesterday and now this. I’ve been checking my mobile all day yesterday.”

“What”, Sherlock asks again and scrunches his nose but John immediately waves a hand at him. “It’s the delivery service, it appears they went and delivered your present to the wrong address. God, this is so silly.” Turning to Sherlock, he explains, “The package is at Speedy’s. Has been since yesterday afternoon, in fact. They must have sent it with another company, otherwise I would have received it when I got the anonymous one. This is just…” He huffs a mirthless laugh and lets the offending phone fall onto the floor. “And guess what Mycroft texted me about yesterday at Bart’s. And I didn’t check it.” 

Sherlock’s smile widens and he reaches out a hand to cart it through John’s hair. It’s quite a feat to not immediately jump out of bed and tear down the stairs to Speedy’s to finally get his hands on the present John had intended to woo him with. Sherlock bites his tongue the next second because ‘wooing’ is just such a pedestrian term, but he just cannot help how his cheeks hurt from smiling and his heart lurches hard in his chest. John certainly _has_ wooed him in a way, but it wasn’t exactly what people would call protocol. First offering a present, shedding light on their intentions before taking the other one out on a perfect date and then into bed. Sherlock really likes the fact that it wasn’t protocol. 

The mysterious card and digitalis flower from yesterday that he still hasn’t the first idea about who’d sent it to him notwithstanding; receiving John’s present means he can at least finally solve _one_ mystery. Glancing up at John, who’d downright refused to enlighten him in terms of said present’s contents, Sherlock wonders if he can make a quick dash downstairs and chalk it up as getting them breakfast.

Reading him well, John grabs his hand, turns around and kneels between Sherlock’s legs, a small grin on his face. The sheet has come loose around his hips and legs and Sherlock feels the color rising in his cheeks due to the spectacular amount of hard muscles under tan skin John is flashing him with. His own cock certainly deems it spectacular. 

“You know,” John says, sliding closer and Sherlock cannot help how his gaze falls down towards John’s broad chest and slides lower still. “I shouldn’t be surprised that your brother monitors me sending you a parcel. I know I also shouldn’t be surprised he’s got someone to actually track... Oh!” Abruptly, John falls silent and some kind of nervous flicker comes into his eyes. “Sherlock,” he says, slowly, “I will remind your brother that not everything we do is his damn business next time I see him. But-” 

“What-?” Sherlock is puzzled but John hurries to wave a hand at him.

“Nevermind, where were we? So...” He’s towering over Sherlock and strokes a hand over his cheekbones, teasingly, his eyes gleaming wickedly all of a sudden and Sherlock stares, enthralled, thinking how magnificent a person John is. “As I see it, the test results of that digitalis flower won’t be due until much later today and Speedy’s is open until 10pm, so what do you say to, maybe-“ John trails of and skims sturdy fingers down Sherlock chest, delicately brushing a nipple. Sherlock shivers.

“Breakfast? In bed, perhaps?” John’s eyes are coy and teasing. “Or no breakfast and an early lunch instead?” 

“Food is _boring_ , John,” Sherlock chastises coyly and John licks his lips and rolls his eyes. He gently skims his hands upwards again, brushing the other nipple. “That’s your opinion _now_ , but if I remember correctly, which I am sure I do, you’ve rather enjoyed it yesterday. We could also have a soak- together, if you like.” 

“Please, John,” Sherlock scoffs, but the warmth pooling in his belly is rather enthusiastic about the idea. “A shared bath, really? How… romantic of you.”

“Ah,” John smiles widely, “says the man who calls Greg pathetic for it, yet _still_ had a perfect date on Valentine’s Day _himself_. Wining and dining, holding hands and kisses in the dark. Oh, don’t give me that look,” he demands when Sherlock scowls because John has so hit the nerve. Shaking his head, John contemplates him and what he sees makes him narrow his eyes a bit, thus deepening the crinkles around them. “You’re always so deprecatory towards the things you’re too… I don’t know… embarrassed to show you want?” John finishes and Sherlock is fighting a hard war against all the sentiments that are threatening to show on his face. He blushes furiously with the effort and at being caught out. 

“Well…” John smiles fondly, smoothing out the lines around his eyes and, aiming for playful banter, makes a show of thinking before his eyes light up with whatever thought Sherlock is sure John had already decided upon when he suggested a bath. “You’ve probably never had a proper shared bath before.” Eyes turning incandescent, he continues, “I could splash you with water, wash your hair… pull a bit at those gorgeous curls. As far as I remember it got a rather interesting reaction last night and I might want to pursue that.” Running a hand up Sherlock’s face and into his hair, he suggestively does exactly that, chuckling when Sherlock gasps, remembering. 

Continuing as if nothing happened, John taunts, “Maybe we’ll tip it over into a nice massage… maybe into more than a nice massage…”

Sliding his hand down a bit, John lets his thumb rest suggestively at Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock, grateful for the reprieve and eager to side-track John, slants his eyes upwards and sucks it into his mouth. John’s answering gasp is delicious. 

“Well, if you insist…” Sherlock says around biting and licking at John’s thumb, pursing his lips while his tongue presses against calloused skin and he is thrilled to note John’s cock jumping at his ministrations.

“I absolutely think we should do exactly that.” John’s voice is very deep again and its timbre is obviously wired to Sherlock blood and where it pools hotly in his lap.

As he lets John take his hand, pull him out of bed and propel him into the loo, where John switches on the tap before engulfing him in his sturdy arms to pull him close and kiss him enthusiastically, Sherlock thinks that Valentine’s Day is still a highly overrated and stupid day and he will never ever succumb to buying flowers or ridiculous heart shaped balloons. He will never be as pathetic as setting store in such a day to cherish his beloved and what they share, what is blooming and progressing between them. He will certainly, should it work out between his brother and Lestrade, use _every_ opportunity that will present itself in any way, shape or form to taunt them about their hilarious timeframe of deciding to actually start dating. It may all be rather pathetic but leverage against Mycroft is leverage against Mycroft, and therefore precious and rare. 

Instead, he vows to take John out whenever the notion strikes, kiss him whenever he likes and take him to bed to either sleep or not sleep every night. To wake up again to John’s warm and wonderful body, that, in this very moment, is pressed up against his to have him as close as possible. 

John has told him his present was something Sherlock needed but now that John’s heart beats in time with Sherlock‘s where they embrace in the loo and wait for the tub to fill, Sherlock thinks that he already has everything he needs. Here, in his life at 221b, in his arms. _His, finally._ And what’s more: No matter who has sent the mysterious present to him, the saying on the card absolutely proved to be right.

 

The end

***

Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock but if I did, I’d give him to John.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been pondering ideas for stories for months now, dismissing them left, right and center and then this little idea practically fell into my lap. I’ve planned 14k words but it got a bit out of hand. It always does. But anyway, I’d be happy for comments and kudos and I really think I am getting better. At least a bit, but what can you do, I am happy and I had a lot of fun with this story. 
> 
> I decided to leave out the identity of Sherlock’s secret admirer and also what John gives Sherlock for Valentine’s Day but of course I know;) Isn’t it coincidence? So maybe you’d like to tell me what you think? Is it Mycroft? (btw, I am unbelievably fond of Mycroft, isn’t he awesome?) And what about the Woman? Mrs. Hudson? Molly? Guess away.
> 
> I'll tell you if you guess both instigator and reason correctly. (And maybe I'll even write it all down in a small sequel; I don't promise, though)


End file.
